


Sleep me-With

by sivib



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Deaf, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 09:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sivib/pseuds/sivib
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock rolls his eyes and signs again.  “Sleep.” (Hand held near eyes with thumbs and fingers extended. Hands then close in front of eyes so finger tips touch thumb tip.) “Me-with.” (Hand to chest, then out to grasp the other.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep me-With

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zeta_tales](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=zeta_tales).
  * Inspired by [Fill](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/8843) by Zeta_tales. 



“Sleep me-with,” Sherlock signs.

John isn’t quite sure he read that right. “Say again?” he asks, as he still sometimes has to. His ability with BSL has progressed by leaps and bounds, aided by YouTube and See Hear, but there are still times he doesn’t quite catch Sherlock’s quick hands at their true meaning.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and signs again. “Sleep.” (Hand held near eyes with thumbs and fingers extended. Hands then close in front of eyes so finger tips touch thumb tip.) “Me-with.” (Hand to chest, then out to grasp the other.)

“That’s what I thought you said. I thought you were married to your work.” John signs as he speaks, partly to practice so he can understand Sherlock better, partly because, well, its mates, isn’t it? Talk French to a Frenchman, sign to a deaf man. “What brought this on?”

Sherlock is curled on his side on the sofa, his giraffe legs drawn up almost to his chest, as he signs sideways at John. “Not fuck. Sleep. Idiot.” He looks uncomfortable, but not, John thinks, at the first suggestion. At the second. “Can’t sleep. Too dark.” His hands are slow, now, then fast. Reluctant.

“Huh.” John considers, then shrugs. “Ok,” he signs (quick thumb up) and then, “Now?” (both hands out flat, palm up, bounce, question mark with eyebrows).

Sherlock nods, then bounds up in one smooth motion and disappears upstairs, his dressing gown following like a silken shadow.

“Huh,” John says again. And follows him up.

It’s late, past ten. The moon shines dimly through Sherlock’s cracked open window. No drapes or screen, John notices. The light is on in the closet when he comes in, casting a ray of yellow light across the bare wooden floor. No carpets to muffle vibrations, John thinks. The room is dim, but not dark. Sherlock is already in bed, duvet pulled up to his chin. He jerks his head toward John. “Right, hang on,” John says, and goes up to his room for a quick shower, piss, and into clean pants and vest. Warm enough, he thinks, and goes back down.

Sherlock is standing at the window, now, but he turns around as John comes back in. No carpets, right. “You came back,” Sherlock’s long hands dance slowly, but his face is in shadow. 

The light is on John’s, but he signs with the speech, so Sherlock won’t have to try to read his lips. “Yes. Sleep now?” He sweeps his hand toward the bed, and after a pause, Sherlock clambers in. John slips in beside him.

It’s quiet. Always quiet. He can hear Sherlock breathing. The distant sound of Martha’s telly. Night noises drifting up from Baker Street. Everything tells him safety and home. He feels himself relaxing, despite the shared bed, despite the solitary habit of years. He closes his eyes, drifting off to the sleepy susurration of the evening.  
Sherlock shifts, and John startles as Sherlock reaches over and places his hand over John’s chest. He looks over in surprise. Sherlock doesn’t meet his eyes, looks away, looks uncomfortable. And then John understands.

Sherlock is an insomniac. He goes for days without sleep. John has tried begging, scolding, lecturing, but Sherlock won’t go to bed until his body is near collapse.  
John takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling, and thinks about the comforting night noises. Thinks about the times in the field he has startled awake to the sound of gunfire, or the sentry. Thinks about the stealthy motions that might herald an intruder, an assassin, a plaguy older brother. About closing your eyes to the silence and trying to sleep, when your mind won’t stop telling you all the things which might be in the night and which you’ll never hear coming.

John takes a deep breath, and feels Sherlock’s hand rise and fall with his chest. Feels Sherlock relax, bit by bit, as John lets himself relax into the bed’s embrace. “I’ve got this watch,” he says, and he can feel his words rumble under Sherlock’s hand. 

Sherlock looks up, sleepy eyes confused. “Say again?” he signs.

Hand held near eyes with thumbs and fingers extended. Hands then close in front of eyes so finger tips touch thumb tip. Hand to chest, then grasping the other.

And Sherlock does.

**Author's Note:**

> Not my first rodeo, but my first posting here. All comments welcome. I'm a big girl.


End file.
